


dance the dance that's called

by myrish_lace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cheesy, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Snow knows nothing, POV Multiple, Seriously Cheesy, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 07:01:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7498674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrish_lace/pseuds/myrish_lace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya returns home to Winterfell, only to find something strange is brewing between Jon and Sansa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Arya**

_I look like a trussed-up doll,_ Arya thought, glaring in the mirror. Oh well, at least it was just for one night, and she had Jon and Sansa to keep her company at the Winter Feast in celebration of the new King in the North. Arya snorted. She did love Jon to pieces, but him being the King in the North was a bit ridiculous. So far, at least, the title hadn’t gone to his head.

She almost tripped on the way out of her solar. She’d insisted on not having a lady's maid, because who needs one of those, what a waste, but since these gowns seemed designed to make it as difficult as possible to move, that might have been a tactical error. One night, and it’s back to pants and jerkins and boots. Leave the silks and lace to Sansa.

Sansa had been Arya’s biggest surprise when she returned home. She was wiser, and sadder than Arya expected. The trials of Kings Landing and the horrors of Ramsey Bolton had changed her. She’d emerged stronger, Arya thought, but much more guarded. They got along well enough, but sometimes Sansa’s skill at concealing what she was feeling drew Arya up short. Jon was still Jon, of course. Well, apart from that whole back-from-the-dead bit, but even so he was still her dear older brother. He knew there were things she wasn’t ready to tell him about her time away, and didn’t press her, and she loved him for that.

“Excuse me, my lady, could you help me find my sister Arya? We’re late for the feast and – ow!”

She punched Jon in the shoulder at the bottom of the stairs.

“It’s me you stupid, stop blathering on about ladies!”

“Well you do look like a proper lady on her way to a feast," Jon said with smiling eyes, ducking as Arya punched him again.

“Shut up!”

“Oh Arya, I have missed you," Jon said, grinning. Idiot. Arya had missed him too.

Arya head the rustle of skirts, and a soft voice floated down the stairwell. “How do I look?” Arya heard Sansa ask from the top of the stairs, sounding bright and cheerful and a little unsure, in a blue silk gown with all kinds of embroidered bits Sansa had probably stitched herself. Arya started to answer but caught Jon staring, thunder-struck, mouth slightly open, gazing at Sansa as if she were some kind of goddess and he had lost the power to speak.

_Oh shit_ , Arya thought. _Jon is in love with Sansa._

Sansa hid things better than Jon, she always had, and now was no exception, but Arya could tell she was taken by Jon – striking in the grey and black cloak she’d made for him, and looking, okay, if you squinted, kind of like a prince from a fairytale. _She’s nervous_ , thought Arya, _really nervous. She needs him to like how she looks_. Jon, apart from gaping at Sansa like a green boy, still hadn’t said a word.

_Gods, Jon, do I have to do everything_? “Sansa, you look –

“Like a queen," Jon said, low and awed. “You look like a queen.”

Apparently that had been the right answer, because Sansa flushed, and gave Jon a small, real smile – not one of her many practiced ones.

“Yeah, you look like a Queen, Jon’s the King in the North, we all look like we stepped out of a storybook, now can we please just get to this bloody feast?”

“You look beautiful, Arya,” Sansa said, descending the last stair. “Violet suits you.”

Arya caught herself before rolling her eyes, remembering the days Sansa had spent making Arya’s dress. That was a true kindness, and Arya knew enough of the world now to know how rare such kindness was. Even f it arrived in the form of a too-tight silk dress she couldn’t properly walk in.

“Thanks Sansa,” Arya muttered. “You’re the only reason I’m not walking into this thing buck naked.” Jon laughed.

“Arya!” scolded Sansa.

_There_ , thought Arya, _that should get rid of some of this weirdness._

“No really, Sansa, I mean it, thanks, it was nice of you.” Arya finished lamely, as Jon pulled himself together. “Is the carriage here yet?” “I’ll go check,” said Jon, and Arya couldn’t help noticing how Sansa eyes lingered as she watched him leave. “So how many marriage proposals do you think you’ll get tonight”? Arya asked. “You do look really...pretty, Sansa.”

Sansa sighed, deflating a bit. “One would be too many. I understand why they have to ask, but...well, I’ll just keep putting them off.”

“That should be easy, you’re really good at that,” Arya said earnestly, and Sansa actually laughed, which was a true accomplishment. “No, I mean...you’re really good at telling people ‘no’ without making them feel bad.”

“Thanks, Arya. I’m glad you’re coming with us tonight. How many marriage proposals do you think you’ll get?”

“Twelve, at least”, Jon said decisively, returning, and Arya did roll her eyes this time. Jon smirked at her. “The carriage is here.”

“Finally. Let’s do this.” 


	2. Chapter 2

The food part was over, and now came the dancing bit, which made Arya cringe. All those lords and ladies bobbing around like little ridiculous birds. She’d firmly turned down three requests to dance – she’d probably catch it from Sansa about that tomorrow, something about slights to other houses and her duty as a Stark woman, Sansa hadn’t changed completely – and staked out a corner to watch.

Jon really was a terrible dancer, but every lady in the room tried to partner with him anyway. “And who wouldn’t want to charm the King in the North?” Sansa had said while sewing weeks ago, predicting Jon would have his hands full at the feast. And if the needle pierced the fabric with a little more force as Sansa spoke, Arya hadn’t noticed at the time.

Sansa had her hands full as well, and she, of course, was a very good dancer. She took a lot of care, Arya realized, to spend almost exactly the same amount of time with each suitor – a few smiles, a few pleasantries exchanged, and then excusing herself gracefully after just one dance. As Sansa extricated herself from yet another Northerner, she turned to face Jon as the next song started. Arya saw him ask her to dance – _how can he be this nervous, she’s just Sansa, what does he think, she’s going to say no?_ – and then, as the two of them stepped onto the floor, the whole room changed.

The dancers parted instinctively to make room for them, and Arya heard a few low gasps and murmurs amidst snatches of conversation. They looked so right together, so fitting, so fine – even if Sansa was basically dragging Jon through the reel, she did it effortlessly enough that Jon looked for a moment as if he might actually like dancing.

“...what a beauty..."

“...Ned and Cat’s wedding.... those two...”

“Pity the Targaryen tendencies don’t run more strongly in the North,” said Lord Baelish, loud enough to carry through the hall, as the song ended.

Sansa flinched, recovered quickly, and smoothed her expression, but the spell was broken. Jon looked angry, and sullen. _That bastard_ , thought Arya, balling her hands into fists. _Thinks he knows what’s best for people, does he? There’s more than one way to wipe a smug smile off someone’s face, and I know a few of them_ –

“Arya,” Sansa said, tapping her on the shoulder. Arya jumped a bit. Jon stood behind Sansa, upset, and flushed. “It’s time to go.”

“You go on ahead, all right? I need to go pound Littlefinger into the ground.”

“No, you don’t,” Jon said sternly, and he look tired, and older, and more like her father than she had ever seen. That stopped her. Arya sighed.

“Fine. Ruin the one good thing that might come out of this party.”

“We’re leaving,” Sansa said. “Would you go with Jon back to the carriage? I have a few people I need to say goodbye to.”

And she walked off, head held high, smiling, scanning the hall, and Arya knew, though she didn’t quite understand why, that Sansa needed it to be Arya and Jon who left the hall together.

“Did you get to twelve proposals? I saw some pretty miserable fellows get turned down when asking you to dance,” Jon said.

It was a half-hearted jest, but she played along and let him tease her as they left the hall and stepped out into the cold night air. _That’s better_ , thought Arya, pausing to breathe in the fresh clean smells of snow and pine woods. _Why do people go to these noisy, uncomfortable things in the first place_?

“In you go,” said Jon, closing the carriage door behind them.

Suddenly it was very quiet. Arya made out Jon’s face across from hers in the moonlight, took in his furrowed brow and the tension around his mouth. He’d pulled off his gloves and the snow from his boots dusted the floor.

 _Here goes nothing_ , she thought.

“So how long have you been in love with Sansa?”


	3. Chapter 3

Jon jolted, looked at her, and she saw fear in his dark eyes.

“Jon, it’s ok, it’s just me, but....you do know you’re in love with her, right?”

Jon paused, as if to speak, then sighed, closed his eyes, and leaned back in his seat, rubbing his hand over his face. “Arya, Sansa’s our sister, and of course I love her, but – “

“I’m not daft, Jon. And you aren’t either. You know what I mean. You look at her like...like mother used to look at father. I didn’t really put it all together until tonight, but you’re always happier when she’s around, more comfortable, you actually smile as if smiling won’t kill you, and then she walks down the stairs in a pretty dress and I honest to god thought you forgot how to talk. Not that you were ever a champion conversationalist or anything, but – “

“Arya, I can’t. I can’t right now. If...if you need to, ask me some other time, and I’ll explain it, but right now I can’t talk about Sansa, okay?”

 _He’s shaking_ , she thought. _Jon’s killed White Walkers and was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch but this, whatever it is, it’s too big for him_.

Sansa burst into the carriage, bringing gusts of snow and the faint sounds of the last of feast with her. Her face was set, her eyes steady, and Arya thought you would have to know her very well to know that she was angry. She sat next to Arya, pulling off her own gloves as she called out to the driver, and then they were off. It was, Arya thought, probably the most uncomfortable carriage ride she’d ever been in.

Back at Winterfell, Arya asked Sansa if she might have a lady's maid for the night, to help with her dress.

“You were right, Sansa, I should have listened to you before, it’ll take me three hours to get out of this thing on my own.” _Or two minutes with a knife at the knots_ , Arya thought, but Sansa probably wouldn’t appreciate it, especially since she’d made the dress.

Sansa nodded, distracted but pleased. “Of course, Arya. I’ll send Maya for you. Sleep well.”

“You too, San. Really if you need me to talk to Littlefinger – “

“No, Arya, that would only complicate matters. After all, he wasn’t making any sense, was he?” Sansa said, a little louder, so that Jon would hear by the door. “Foolish words from a foolish man. Isn’t that right, Jon?”

“Yes. Of course. That’s right,” Jon mumbled. “Go to bed, Arya.”

 _I’m not letting this drop_ , Arya thought. _But I'm not going to get anywhere with these two tonight_.

“Fine. Sleep well, both of you. If you want Littlefinger killed just send for me.” That won a tiny exhausted smirk from Jon and one last “Arya!” from Sansa as she walked to her bedroom.


	4. Chapter 4

  
**Jon**

He could still feel Sansa in his arms as they danced, the silk of her dress soft under his hands, desperately grateful for how she led him through the reel, how he'd been aware of nothing apart from the two of them together, watching her hair shine copper in the candlelight, as his heart hammered in his chest. He’d tried to fight this, tried hard, telling himself at first it was only that he was so grateful to have a part of his family back, so happy Sansa had returned to him. And he was grateful, she’d saved him in more ways than one, first with the Knights of the Vale and in a thousand small ways after that.

When they’d proclaimed him King in the North he couldn’t believe his ears – but there they were, rising to their feet, swords clamoring, demanded something of him, and so he rose, slowly, to answer the call, and he had almost taken Sansa’s hand and asked her to stand with him. He told her that afterwards, in the courtyard, felt he owed her an explanation for why he hadn’t done it, but she had only looked at him with a mix of asperity and no small amount of pity.

“Thank goodness you didn’t, Jon. It is kind of you, and I appreciate the sentiment, but the only woman who could have stood by your side in that room would have been your queen.”

“Right. Of course.”

And then he’d given her an awkward bow, and left the courtyard with the traitorous whisper in his head _but it's you, Sansa, the only woman I'll ever want by my side is you_.

It had only gotten worse after that, once Arya returned. He had missed Arya fiercely, and although they’d both changed, they fell into the easy rhythm they’d had as children, brother and sister, and everything that was right and good about him and Arya made the strangeness with Sansa more painful. He had no idea if Sansa knew, if she noticed it, or thought about it. He expected, in his darker moments, that if she did, she felt sorry for him.

And then the night of that damnable feast had come, and he’d draped the cloak she’d made for him around his shoulders (he caught her scent on it, lemons and winter sun, and tried not to shudder) and in the midst of teasing Arya (who did look adorable, in that “I’d rather be anywhere else” way) Sansa stepped onto the stairs and he found be couldn’t breathe.

 _So beautiful_ , his mind whispered, _she’s so beautiful, has anyone ever looked so beautiful before_?

The colors in her dress caught her eyes and made the red in her hair shine and he could have stared at her forever. And might have, if he hadn’t heard her question, “How do I look?” and lost the guard between his heart and his voice and said, out loud, that she looked like a queen.

And it was true, she did look like a queen, _my queen, Sansa, my beautiful Sansa, please, stand by my side, let me make you happy, stay with me_. Thank the gods he’d had just enough sense to shut his mouth before all of that came tumbling out. And then Arya made a joke, and they’d been able to move on.

Sansa had warned him to be careful with the dancing, not to spend too long with any lady. On the ride over he gave in and just enjoyed how good it felt that she was sitting next to him, anchoring him, keeping him steady. The dancing went a little better than he’d thought. He did his best to follow Sansa’s example and pay attention to them each in kind, almost ignoring the flash of copper as she passed by him.

And then they were facing each other and he truly was an idiot, just like Arya said, he’d forgotten he’d be expected to dance with his sister. He fumbled out the words and she covered for him, smiling, pulling him onto the dance floor and his whole world constricted to that moment, the sounds of the feast and the scent of the food fading as she became everything he thought about, everything he touched, and she looked into his eyes and for a moment he thought he saw her confusion, and perhaps no small amount of happiness –

“...Targaryen tendencies don’t run more strongly in the North.”

_Littlefinger._

Sansa’s face fell, ever so briefly, and he hated Littlefinger more than he thought possible, for taking that gladness away from her ( _because of you, she was glad to be dancing with you_ , whispered the voice in his head, but that couldn’t be right, could it?).

“We need to leave, Jon,” she told him. “We need to leave now.”

 _She’s frightened_ , he realized, _she thinks she’s in danger_ , and instantly he was ready to do whatever she asked of him next.

“What do you need, Sansa? I can go get the carriage – “

“No. Find Arya. The carriage will be waiting. We need to get her home. I’ll find you.”

And she broke away from him, and underneath everything else he ached at the loss of her in his arms.

He spotted Arya quickly enough, staked out by the wall as expected, her hands balled into fists, glaring at Littlefinger. He sympathized, he did, but Sansa was in danger, and wanted to leave, and he needed to make that happen. Then Sansa was behind him, and she moved right to Arya and stepped between her and Littlefinger, shaking her by the shoulder.

Arya jumped, and Sansa pointed to Jon and told Arya to leave with him.

“I have a few people I need to say goodbye to.” She took his hand briefly and squeezed it, and he knew she was saying _Please. Please get Arya out_. So he walked Arya out of the hall and into the carriage, his throat tight with worry, knowing he wouldn’t be able to relax until Sansa was back with them. Arya was safe for now, but Sansa, Sansa was still in that hall with whatever she thought was dangerous, and he hated it.

 _Breathe, Jon, breathe. You’re going to freak Arya out_. Just as he was having some success calming himself, Arya asked him if he knew he was in love with Sansa.

 _Fuck_.

"....Yes. Yes, I know," he almost said. "I am. I’ve tried so hard not to be, but I can’t, Arya. I just can’t."

It would be a relief, to tell her. But he couldn’t burden her with that ugly truth. So he leaned back, and did the right thing, explaining that of course he loved Sansa, Sansa was his sister – but Arya was having none of it. It was too much, his nerves were on edge because Sansa still hadn’t left that hall, and Arya. always sharp, kept getting closer to the truth, and finally he had to cut her off, saying another time, ask me another time, hoping she’d forget ( _not bloody likely, you know how she is once she’s stuck on something_ ).

And then Sansa got into the carriage, angry, but all right, and he could breathe again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sansa**

_Gods, what a mess I've made of it_.

She knew this night was important, and she’d promised herself she’d see it through, for all of them, and that none of the nonsense going on in her head would stop that.

  
Jon was King in the North, and naturally, a king needed a queen. Jon would get to choose once, and he needed to choose right. She remembered all too well when she’d heard of Robb’s death, trapped at King’s Landing, and she knew the Lannisters were behind it. Robb, though, Robb had given them the opportunity, as much as she hated to admit it. He’d married for love, when he’d sworn an oath to marry another.

  
Love was a luxury, and these were dangerous times.

  
Dangerous enough that sometimes it seemed the only person she could trust was Jon. Jon, her half-brother, who’d forgiven her so quickly for the terrible way she’d treated him when they were children, laughed and waved it away, and meant it. It had taken her a few days to believe him, she’d gone so long without trusting anyone at all.

  
Ever since they’d reunited at Castle Black, Jon was never far away from her, and she was grateful for it. There was something almost primal about how concerned he was for her safety. She leaned into it more than she should, encouraged it, even as she told herself, and him, that no one could protect her.

  
But she’d slipped, and let himself care too much for him, much more than a sister should. On the day the Northerners gave Jon her dead brother’s title, he’d started to stand, and then turned to look at her, and she knew he was about to reach for her. _Yes,_ she thought, _together, Jon,_ and almost gave him her hand. Then _no Jon, don’t, you can’t take it back, it can’t be me_ \- and she’d looked down, still smiling, a sister properly pleased at her brother’s success.

She’d pulled it off, the crowd was half-wild anyway and hadn’t noticed – and then she caught Littlefinger’s eye, and she knew he saw every contour of her wrong, twisted feelings.

  
Then Jon had made it worse, by apologizing for it out in the open, in the courtyard where anyone at all could hear them. She’d put him off, even been a little imperious about it. He winced when she was done, looked away from her and up at the sky, more hurt than she’d ever seen him. _He can’t mean it, can he? Jon’s better than that, better than me, he’s not a man to fall in love with his half-sister._

  
She lingered in the snow after he left, unsure for the first time.

  
Then Arya came back to them, and she and Jon picked up as if almost nothing had changed, and Sansa, relieved, knew Jon would never feel the way she did.

As soon as she could, she’d match Jon with a good woman, a lady to guide him, to share his burdens, _and he’ll put you aside for her_. Of course he would. That was right, and the way of things. She’d get herself under control, and get him through this feast.

He'd looked so lost, as he asked her to dance. She wanted to protect him, so she did the best she could – she got him out onto the floor. And then his hand was at her waist, and his touch was hot through the thin silk fabric of her dress, and suddenly she was right back in the thick of it.

Jon really was handsome, and earnest, and tender, and he was looking at her like she was the only person in the world, and she thought her suspicions might have been right, maybe this was complicated for him too. _And why can’t I pretend, just for one dance? Why can’t I pretend I’m his queen and he’s my king and I’m dancing with him because I only want his arms around me and no one else’s_?

She’d been faintly aware of the murmurs in the hall and she knew something important was happening, something she should pay attention to, the game never stops, and she knew it for sure when Littlefinger’s voice, pitched to carry, rose above the crowd, talking about _Targaryens_. And it didn't matter if she’d fooled the others, managed to keep her girlish dreams hidden from them as she let herself go, dancing with Jon – Littlefinger saw, Littlefinger knew, and Littlefinger would spread whatever word he thought would hurt them the most.

 _Get out, get Jon and Arya out, shut this down_. Jon hadn't figured it out, he was still slow at politics, but he knew she was upset, and she took comfort in the fact he’d do whatever she asked of him, no question. She worried Arya would give too much away, and sent Jon after her, gathering her composure around her like armor.

It was vital Jon left this feast with someone other than her, and Arya was the best option.  Arya was glaring at Littlefinger like she could drop him dead with a glance, but Arya had no idea, no idea at all how dangerous Littlefinger was, so Sansa broke that eye contact, and silently pled with Jon _take Arya and go, now_. He did, he was always quick to understand her when she was scared, thank the gods, and he hustled Arya out as she scanned the room.

 _Who saw, who heard Littlefinger, who believes him, how much damage control do I need to do?_ She spotted Littlefinger immediately and let her gaze skip over him and on to others, not pausing at all, knowing she needed to select people to speak with before she talked to him, to let his words dissipate. She selected a few lords and ladies who’ve asked specific favors of House Stark, and caught them to remind them that she remembered their proposals, and expected House Stark would be of assistance. It would give them something else to think about as they left the feast, something else to talk about out on the way home, and if it cost the coffers of Winterfell a little more, it was well worth the expense.

She could feel Llittlefinger’s eyes on her the whole time as she smiled, clasped hands, curtsied to lords and ladies headed out of the hall. Finally, she walked over to him.

“What a wonderful display of brotherly love, Lady Sansa.“

“Lord Baelish,” she greeted him, ignoring the jab. “You look well. Did you enjoy the feast?”

“I can’t say I was overly impressed with the food, but the festivities were certainly to my liking.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’m sure the ladies were thrilled to dance with you. You’ve always been a clever dancer.”

“All the cleverness in the world couldn’t hold a candle to the sight of you and your brother on the floor tonight. Why, the two of you together looked positively regal.“

“He certainly is striking, my brother,” she said, as she shrugged her shoulders. “It helps that I make him dress the part.”

“Striking, indeed.”

“I wanted to ask for your assistance, Lord Baelish,” she said, as she spoke more quietly, putting her hand on his arm. She’s practiced, and could see his small intake of breath, how his eyes narrow. _He still wants me. Good._

“Any way I can assist in the happiness of House Stark, Lady Sansa. You know I am at your disposal.”

“I was hoping you could help me make a match for Jon,” she said, looking up at him through her eyelashes, inserting worry into her voice.

“Oh I’d say he might already have a match in mind, Lady Sansa.”

 _Damn you for enjoying this_.

“Me, you mean, Lord Baelish? I couldn’t help but overhear your remarks about Targaryens,” she said coolly, putting all of her mother’s ice behind her words. “Who knows, maybe Jon does think such things, though I certainly hope not. Kings answer to no one, after all.” _Not even you_. “But you and I know better. We know he needs a solid match, and soon. Will you help me?”

“Indeed, kings are known to have their own proclivities. But I’m touched you’ve come to me with this concern, Lady Sansa.”

“We needn’t speak more of it tonight, but perhaps we can discuss it soon. At Winterfell.” _Gods, what it would take to explain this to Jon_.

“Of course. l look forward to it. I’ll send a raven.” He kissed her hand, his eyes never leaving her face, and it took all of her experience and will not to flinch.

“Wonderful. That’s settled, and a relief to me. Good night, Lord Baelish.”

“Good night, Lady Sansa. Sleep well.”

She kept her steps light as she walked out of the hall, a lady without a care in the world. It wasn’t until she was finally, finally in the carriage with Jon and Arya that she let her face slip, even a little. Jon moved toward her as she entered and she shot him a look, one Arya couldn’t see, _not now, please Jon._

She couldn’t risk sitting near him again, even though she’d let herself indulge in it on the way over, so she settled herself by Arya for the ride home.

Arya knew something was wrong, and asked for a lady's maid to placate Sansa before she went to bed, _Well, it’ll keep Arya from cutting the dress off_ , she thought wryly, and with affection. She agreed to send one up, turning aside Arya’s questions about Littlefinger and musing, louder than she needed too, about how foolishly Littlefinger had spoken. If any of the servants hear about tonight, maybe they'd be inclined to think poorly of Littlefinger. Nothing would please her more.

Jon was by her side as soon as the carriage was off, and helped her talk Arya into going to bed. After Arya left, Sansa turned to Jon. His eyes were soft, and full of worry, and she had to speak before he did, or she’d run the risk of falling into his arms.

“Jon, I’m tired, can we talk tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course.”

 

Sansa fell asleep thinking of who Jon's queen could be, and how to keep them all out of danger.

She dreamed of dancing.

**Author's Note:**

> So I accidentally deleted this, and I'm re-posting. I'm kind of an internet klutz, what can I say? Sorry, and thanks to all who left comments/kudos! :)
> 
> ***  
> Arya's younger, and more naive than she's become in the show here - basically, she's not yet No One. I miss that Arya a little bit. Don't get me wrong, the assassin stuff is awesome too!


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